Love Nouveau (2 page)

“Fine, Gen, I’ll wear whatever you want. Listen, I need to get going. As much as I’d love to rack up Mom and Dad’s phone bill with this call, it’s late and my roommate is trying to sleep. I guess just email me with the details and we’ll chat more when I’m home for graduation, okay?”

“Sure, okay.”

“Bye,” I chirp before I realize that Genevieve has already hung up the line. Fitting, after all this time she still thinks she has the right to the last word.

Robyn pulls herself out from the novel she has been reading and gives me a pointed look, mouth agape. I run my fingers over the threadbare quilt I bought from a thrift store on the square, avoiding her stare. The teal and gray details have faded over time, but the weathered weaves are soft and comforting. Italy feels more like home than anywhere else.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, girl.”

And with that, she snaps her book shut and clicks off her lamp, leaving me alone in the glow from my laptop.

I LEAN MY HEAD AGAINST the window and look out beyond the wing to the twinkling city lights below. As we descend toward U.S. soil, I can’t help but think about how things have changed over the past nine months. And when I say ‘things’ I’m really talking about myself. Who knew that it would take an escape to realize that I am not my mother’s daughter and that who I’ve slept with is certainly not a reflection of my true self.

When I left for Italy, I wanted to get away from all of the drama with my family and with my now
ex
-boyfriend, Matt. I had become the girl who would excessively drink to avoid actually having to feel something, and I’d slept with countless guys who most definitely were
not
my boyfriend. I desperately wanted to disconnect from the world around me.

So I ran.

I ran halfway around the globe to a place where I knew not one soul and where the Cotter family name would have no consequences. And just to be sure, I took up my grandmother’s last name—Phillips.

It was a glorious nine months abroad. I learned more about myself than I’d ever imagined possible. The old Ivy feared parental reaction from each tiny act of defiance. But the new Ivy says, “Fuck ‘em all!” a sentiment that Rachel will surely appreciate. My new motto? Be who you are and own that shit—because only with true self-acceptance comes peace and joy.

No more
self-loathing.

No more
hiding behind the guises of liquor and meaningless one-night stands.

No more
fearing living life
my
way.

No more
aiming to please my parents, especially when they don’t see the value in me.

I, Ivy Cotter, am returning to the states a completely different woman … Ivy Phillips.

It took all of three bags to pack up my belongings. Last August I brought one trunk of clothes, some toiletries and a few supplies for classes. The only memories I packed were a few photos, mostly of me and my best friend Rachel. She was really the only one I’d actually missed. We’ll be reunited in a matter of hours, and in a few short days we’ll walk together in the University of Wisconsin commencement ceremonies, entering the proverbial real world. I’ve never understood why they call it the real world. The past twenty-something years of my life sure as hell have felt real, absolutely painful. And there’s nothing like pain to prove you’re really alive.

The captain announces preparations for the plane’s final descent and I realize just how anxious I am to get back to Madison. Only within the past few weeks have I really started to crave the familiarity of home. A few weeks ago I even sought out the American sports bar La Botticella so I could watch the Chicago Cubs on opening day. They lost, which was more comforting than surprising. It’s good to know that some things will never change.

I can hardly contain my excitement when it comes to Rachel. It feels like we’ve been separated for a decade. I’ve missed everything about her, especially her energy and her ability to make me forget about my bat shit crazy family. But the best thing about our friendship is the fact it is so effortless. The moment we see each other, I know it will be as if no time has passed at all.

Our time together is numbered, though. Rachel is returning to Chicago, presumably to live off of her trust fund for a while as she figures out what she wants to do next with her life. Not that I blame her. While majoring in Political Science, she still has no idea what she wants to be when she grows up.

I, on the other hand, have known what I’ve wanted to do ever since a junior high field trip to the Art Institute of Chicago for the traveling Monet exhibit. I wandered off on my own, and as all of my classmates were waiting for me on the bus, Mr. Moyer, my Art Appreciation teacher, found me sitting in front of the
Water Lilies
painting, lost in thought. Rather than turning angry because I’d separated from the group, he’d sat down next to me and talked about Impressionism—not so much about the art itself, but how it made each of us feel. I have Mr. Moyer to thank for opening my eyes to countless other movements like Surrealism, Constructivism, Cubism, Pop Art and more. And when he showed me how I could have a career in art without actually being an artist, I knew I had found my calling.

Majoring in Art History has been one of the most fulfilling things I’ve ever done for myself, much to my family’s chagrin. And while I don’t have anything lined up after graduation, I’m hopeful that I can find work. I’d give anything to work in an artist’s studio or even an art gallery. Then again, Kate Middleton majored in Art History and that seemed to work out well for her, though my life is anything but a fairytale with a crown prince waiting for me in the wings.

When the wheels finally touch the ground, a strange combination of relief and anxiety wash over me. I inhale deeply and swallow down the sensation.
A fresh start
.

I can do this.

MY EYES SCAN THE EMPTY apartment. It’s strange to be here without Rachel’s boisterous personality filling the space. When I told Rachel about my plans to go abroad senior year, I insisted on helping her find a suitable roommate in my absence, one who could handle her quirks and habitual study partners (her code for hook ups) every weekend without fail. But she refused, saying no one would ever take my place. Really, we both knew she was looking forward to having some space and freedom to walk around the apartment in nothing but her unmentionables. Not that my presence ever stopped her before.

Walking into my old room, I see traces of my life before Italy scattered everywhere. This is the room of a completely different girl. Photos of a questionably happy Matt and I smile down at me from the corkboard above the desk. Movie stubs, concert posters and old Badger football tickets from Saturdays at Camp Randall Stadium litter the walls.

The only thing that has changed is the fine layer of dust collected upon my former life. Walking to the bathroom, I trace my finger along the bookcase, leaving a trail of cleanliness in its wake.

I take my time and unpack enough to get me through the next few days. No sense in unloading all of my belongings for my brief graduation layover here in Madison. Looking around the apartment, I can’t believe how much I’ve missed this place. Wisconsin was always more of a home to me than Chicago ever was.

Snagging a soda from the fridge, I settle into the overstuffed love seat that is too large for our modest living room. Frankly, the yellow and blue paisley pattern is hideous but adds character to an otherwise drab space.

When we found it the summer before our sophomore year, Rachel demanded that it be the focal point of the room, deeming that it would make us sit closer to the guys we brought home. In reality, the most action it saw was the pair of us huddled together under a blanket gossiping. The one time Rachel tried to get lucky on it, she put too much weight against the backside and the whole thing flipped over in the throes of passion. I stormed out in a sleepy daze, convinced we were being robbed, and beat the hell out of the nameless naked jackass with a golf club. Since then, we’ve agreed to relegate all promiscuity to our respective bedrooms.

I open my laptop and instantly connect to the wireless network. It’s true what they say—home is where your Wi-Fi connects automatically. I load my email page and key in my password. Six new messages flash the top of my inbox. After deleting a plea from a Nigerian prince and several solicitations for black market penis enhancers, I click on an email from my favorite professor with a smile.

Professor Whitman is an elderly stout gentleman with a refined penchant for Renaissance and Baroque art. And when I say gentleman, I mean it. He’s a true southern beau at heart and vigilant proponent of random acts of chivalry. I never did learn how he ended up in Wisconsin for the long haul, but if I had to guess, I’d venture to say it was a hopeless act of romance that kept him here.

I had taken nearly all of my Art History cornerstone classes with him and he’d become fond of me when I practically begged him to take me on as a teaching assistant for the entry-level Art History lecture. He saw it as enthusiasm. I saw it as a paycheck to bring myself one step closer to living independently from my parents. Most of all, I liked Professor Whitman because he was simply a nice guy. He knew how to make learning fun and, as Associate Dean of the Fine Arts program, he made it his business to know who’s who among the student body. Over the past four years, he’d evolved into the dad I had always wanted but never had. Don't get me wrong. I have a father in the sense of an overbearing, controlling, ATM machine. But he isn’t a
dad
.

As I open his email, it’s impossible not to imagine Professor Whitman reciting it aloud with a cigar in one hand, whiskey neat in the other, his over exaggerated gestures sloshing the amber liquid through the air.

Ivy,

Welcome back! I trust that your European adventure has served you well and that this message finds you in the comforts of home. Teaching Art History 101 to a lecture hall of freshman thinking they were in a blow off course was not nearly as satisfying without you joining me as my T.A. again. I always appreciated your snark and ability to break through to them. But I digress.

James Horejsi, a friend and former colleague, contacted me last week about a new endeavor. Last year he opened Gallery 545 in New York and now has an opportunity for an Associate Curator. James asked me if I knew of anyone who would, theoretically, be worthy and knowledgeable enough to take on such a prestigious position. I replied that, theoretically, if I did have someone in mind, I would need to talk with him or her prior to handing him his or her personal information.

Naturally, with your passion for art, you were the first student to come to mind.

So, Ivy, if you are—in theory—interested, just say the words and I will put him in touch with you. James has worked at countless art museums around the world including The Louvre and Prado Museum, and within the last decade has begun opening art galleries across the globe. Opportunities from him are rare and tend to be available for a fraction of a millisecond. He’s good people and you would get along swimmingly, of this I am sure.

Feel free to stop by during my office hours so we can chat a bit more. I would love to hear all about Italy and learn if you are interested in scheduling an interview with James. Theoretically, of course.

Sincerely,

Dr. Elias Whitman

Flattered, I shoot him a quick message back and make a mental note to head to campus and visit him tomorrow. My insides fall through my feet when I click open the next email. Her inevitable acrimonious tone floods my head as I start to read.

Ivy Elaine,

I am writing to let you know that your father and I will be unable to attend your graduation ceremonies this weekend. Genevieve and Cortland have their tasting for the wedding, along with a few other important appointments that simply cannot be missed. As maid of honor, you need to reconsider your stopover in Madison and join us to fulfill your sisterly obligation.